Let's drink to Doug's talent, his feats and to his fading legacy

Doug Walters means so much more to so many than just a super-talented larrikin cricketer. He represents an Australia lost, John Harms reports.

Believe this if you will. Doug Walters played his final Test 23 years ago in February: the third Test against India at the MCG, which Australia lost when embarrassingly bowled out for 83 when chasing just 142.

Not that it was Dougie's fault. He made 78 in the first innings and was stranded on 18 when the last wicket fell. But, having always struggled in England, he was not picked for the 1981 Ashes tour (thereby missing out on the 500-1 at Headingley).

Time has passed - sadly, so quickly - yet Walters retains his position as a character in Australian sport. For he is the most versatile of heroes. In Taree, he's a timber-cutter; in Queenstown, a miner; in Port Lincoln, a fisherman; in Hamilton, a shearer. And everywhere, a good bloke.

The sort of bloke who will walk into the barber shop in Kerang, spot the racing photo on the wall and ask, "Maiden winner at Berrigan, heh! I backed the top weight in that." (And did.)

The sort of bloke who bowls medium pacers off a long run because he thinks he's a quick bowler. The sort of bloke who knows that poker hands have names, who knows two pair, threes over twos, are "scabbies and scalies", and three threes is a "State Express". The sort of bloke who is always thirsty, especially on aircraft. The sort of bloke who did Nasho.

Perhaps it's because one of his great feats was seen by so many.

There aren't a lot of "where were you when" moments in history. JFK. 9/11. Princess Di, perhaps. But one of the big ones for sports-loving Australians is where you were when Walters hit the last ball of the day from Bob Willis for six at the WACA Ground, second Test v England, 1974-75, to bring up his century in a session.

It was a Saturday in December. I had played my own under-12 cricket that morning. I had to mow the neighbour's lawn that afternoon but kept putting it off as the top order piled on the runs. Finally, I had to make the effort and mowed for a couple of hours with the little red National pocket trannie in my ear. As Walters belted the Poms everywhere, I mowed into the evening - a scary activity when sparks fly from an old Rover as darkness descends. What a player: Dougie Walters!

In my imagination, Walters is one of the last to play cricket. He played at a time when he could be the individual he is.

Hurrying to rake the rows and pick up the heaps, I finally abandoned the task, getting inside for the last over from R.G.D. Willis. Walters was on 93 but Ross Edwards was on strike. They took a leg bye from the first ball. Willis to Walters.

Willis, the tall, thoughtful Englishman, had been captured by the poetry and philosophy of Bob Dylan. He wore his hair like Dylan. He even added Dylan to his name. Walters, the larrikin Australian, needed 10 for the hundred in a session.

First ball to him was a bouncer and Walters, as drawn to the short ball as he was to cold beer, and particularly proficient at the desperate late-afternoon hook-swat, top-edged it high over the gloves of Alan Knott for four.

Surely he would get the runs now. Hundreds of boys (some in their 30s, at least) crouched in the on-your-mark position on the grass, outside the boundary rope, ready to sprint towards their hero.

Walters expected another short one. But Willis kept it up to him and he defended each delivery. Five successive national groans emanated from lounge rooms. Six required. The rest is folklore.

Walters' hard-earned was on Willis digging another one in and when it came, he pulled it ferociously over the square-leg umpire, over the English fieldsman, over the invading fans, and over the boundary for six.

These things happened to Walters. Born just a couple of months after the Japanese surrender, it was as if he were to be the apotheosis of the things the Diggers fought for: cold beer, a bet, a fag, a yarn, and a game of cards. A game of anything, played by a people who revered natural sporting ability; who thought practice was a quick round at the local.

Having grown up on a dairy farm in Dungog, not far from Maitland, north of Sydney, Walters seems to have carried the flag of an old Australia that has changed - and is even disappearing. Perhaps it was because he had the look of old Australia. He clung to Brylcreem longer than most, wearing that parted, short-back-and-sides with style.

In fact, while Ian Chappell, et al, looked ready for any London nightclub as they walked on to the field, Doug in his creams could quite easily have been off to bowls.

Perhaps it was because he was seen to be protecting the Australian right to a beer at a time when freedoms were being eroded by cricketing authorities. Those who said the introduction of the 24-can rule was the thin edge of the wedge have been proven correct.

More likely, though, is that Walters was one of the last of the cricket players. In my imagination, he is one of the last to play cricket. He played at a time when he could be the individual he is.

These days, cricketers are workers, suited cogs in another industrial wheel. Professionals who can attain high standards by coaching and disciplined practice. Team members who take on a collective identity, and don't say too much.

It's a lot harder for us to know them, or imagine them, in the way we have Kevin Douglas Walters.